Like Oxygen
by Eternaltsundere
Summary: In mid 1899, a Spanish poet falls for the young and beautiful Italian courtesan and star of the Moulin Rouge - Lovi. But he isn't the only one seeking the courtesan's love... / In a nutshell, Spamano meets Moulin Rouge. Some events subject to change...


**A/N: Hello, everyone...? So, yeah... in Film as Literature we watched Moulin Rouge and I simply _fell in love! _But since my OTP is Spamano... you can expect that the whole time I was thinking about Hetalia as well. X3 And so... this strange plotbunny was born. **

**I've intentionally left Satine's (Romano's) gender ambigious because I actually don't know yet whether or not I'll be genderbending him or no**t.

The dawn was breaking. Light filtered in through the blinds, cold and unforgiving. A patch of light lit up the man's somber face, but he seemed not to notice; his green eyes were wet with tears, and his breaths were ragged, unsteady. For a long while the only sounds were that of his breaths – then he leaned forward, gaze darkening, towards the typewriter.

He seated himself beside it and began to type.

**The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.**

Voices echoed in his head, but he was used to them by now.

_Tell our story, Antonio.  
_

He drew in a shaky breath. See? He barely even cried now.

_Promise me..._

With a choked noise, the man allowed his fingers to began their treks across the typewriter again. They moved in complex paths, continuing to type out their story. The movements were dance-like but at the same time almost without grace, jerky and odd.

Finally, he found himself at the line he had been dreading the most.

**The one I loved is dead.**

...

He supposed, in hindsight, that the day his life _really _changed was not the day he chose to move to France but the day a drunk German came crashing through his ceiling.

"Owww," whined the German as he sat up, head bleeding profusely, "So not awesome..." And he promptly slumped over onto the cold floor.

"That looks painful," came a remark from above, and Antonio jerked his head upwards. The owner of the voice seemed to be a pretty brown-haired woman, her head sticking through the hole that had been made in the ceiling. Antonio couldn't help but notice the devious glint in her eyes; he wondered if perhaps she had something to do with the German's fall.

Before he could reply, his door slammed open, making him jump. Directing his gaze to the doorway, he blinked at what he saw. A blue-and-red-clad blonde man stood there, and as their eyes met, the man gave Antonio a wink. As if in response, the brunette only tilted his head.

"How do you do?" greeted the man as he walked casually over to the body lying on the floor. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy! And who may you be, handsome fellow?"

Antonio's expression became puzzled. He didn't say anything, only stared in confusion.

"I'm terribly sorry about this! We were just upstairs rehearsing a play. Say, we'll probably need someone to fill in for Gilbert's part – what do you say?" Francis continued, and Antonio seriously wondered if the man ever paused to take a breath. It took him a moment to notice that he had apparently finished speaking, but by that time Francis had already hooked his arm in his own.

And so it was that Antonio Carriedo had gone upstairs to fill in for the now unconscious Gilbert Beilschmidt...

…

"I don't think a nun would say that about a hill," murmured Katyusha, her face troubled. Beside her, Elizaveta scoffed, and Antonio thought he caught her rolling her eyes.

"Fine, fine!" snapped Michelle. "What if I make the lyrics 'the hills are vital, intoning the descant'?" Around her, there were various noises of disapproval, and she huffed loudly, crossing her arms. "If you all don't like my lyrics, why don't _you _try writing a song?"

"The hills shake -" Francis began to suggest.

"No, no, no..! The hills -" interrupted Katyusha.

Antonio blinked from his place in the corner of the room. Was this always how their play rehearsals went? He jumped as the body beside him stirred, glancing once and then returning his attention to the others. Gilbert seemed to be waking up, that was all.

"The hills..," Elizaveta mumbled, trailing off. She shook her head. "This is impossible!"

"The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies!" piped up Gilbert from Antonio's side. Almost instantly, the room fell dead silent as all eyes turned to him. "..What?" snapped the German male.

"I was just a bit surprised to hear you saying something _intelligent, _that's all."

"Hey! I say plenty of smart stuff! Right, Francis? Kesesesese..."

"Not really, mon ami. Anyway, those lyrics won't work."

The dark-haired man at Gilbert's side took this all in with a persisting silence. Finally, he uttered a noise – a small gasp that went unnoticed by the others as they continued their mindless bickering. He had it! But was it really his place to speak here...? Judging by their current predicament, he supposed it wouldn't hurt either way. But when he attempted to speak, he found himself ignored. Constantly.

Sighing, he tried again, this time louder. He earned no response from the loudly arguing group. This called for drastic measures...

"_The hills are alive with the sound of music," _he sung, voice clear and loud.

For the second time that day, a silence had befallen the room. For a long while, it seemed that no one would dare to break it. All of their eyes were trained on the happily-grinning Spaniard on the bed. He continued to smile, apparently blissfully unaware of all the attention he was receiving.

"That sounded awesome!" It was Gilbert who broke the silence, grinning widely.

"It's perfect!" agreed Michelle, her eyes bright. Antonio smiled even bigger, feeling the need for an encore.

"_With songs they have sung... for a thousand years...?" _he tried. Again, the room fell dead silent, until eventually the sound level rose to a low murmur as they all began to speak in hushed voices, their words full of awe.

"Amazing!" chirped Francis as he rather sneakily inched over on the bed until his side was barely brushing Antonio's.

"It is," breathed Katyusha with a little smile. As she stared at the Frenchman, however, her expression faded a bit, seemingly dampened by the sight of his now-wandering hands. Francis froze, catching her eye, and then casually moved his hands back to rest in his lap.

"Elizaveta," came his honey-like voice. "You and Antonio should write the play together, don't you think, _ma cherie_?"

"Excuse me?" sputtered the brunette. She jumped to her feet, face already turning red. "Ex_cuse _me?" Her hands, which had previously been clutching at her dress nonthreatingly, now came to rest at her sides, clenched into tight fists. "You're suggesting I write the play with that _oblivious idiot? _Are you implying that I am even _half _as dense as he? … No offense, Antonio."

"None taken!" Antonio replied, grinning obliviously.

"But _ma cerise_..," Francis attempted, looking torn. "Antonio is _tres magnifique_ with lyrics, even you can see that..."

"Wh- 'Even me'?" she cried out in outrage. Without another word, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

All was silent yet again for a few long moments as everyone shot each other sheepish glances.

"Well!" Michelle peeped eventually. "That went swimmingly."

"We don't need her," Gilbert said with a shrug. "Not when we have someone like Antonio!" Everyone seemed to agree with rather noncommittal noises, making Antonio's face light up with a huge grin. Well, one could certainly say his talent was appreciated here! Even if he had never written anything like this before. … Or, truly, written _anything _before. Still, he was better than nothing, right?

Suddenly, Katyusha spoke up –

"You may be right, but how are we going to convince Jones?"

...

**End A/N: So there you have it. 3 pages of fail. XD If you enjoyed it, leave a review! If only to tell me whether or not to genderbend poor Satine!Lovi... I love yaoi, but I honestly don't know if male prostitutes exist now or existed then. I'm sorry. ;A; Does that make me a failure?**


End file.
